


No Quarter

by diana_lucifera, stormageddon



Series: Brother's Blood [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e10 Asylum, Gen, M/M, Wincest in future parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diana_lucifera/pseuds/diana_lucifera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormageddon/pseuds/stormageddon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which no one kills with kindness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam’s still having nightmares.

And yeah, Dean could lie to himself. Say they’re about Jess and the life and all the awful, fucked up shit they tangle with day in and day out, but the way Sam is some mornings, all smothered anxiety, constantly tracking Dean with his eyes like he’s afraid his brother’s gonna find a way to bite the dust somewhere between the Impala and the gas station bathroom? The way he’s always there, just out of eyeshot, six feet and then some of constant, silent worry, like he’s just waiting for Dean to get snatched out from under him?

This is something older than getting back in the saddle. Something from before the fire and Jess and all that mess.

Something like Covington. Something like Dean’s big Louisiana screw-up haunting Sammy’s dreams and making his life a living hell of stress and worry.

Not like that wouldn’t be obvious, even without the bad dreams. Seems like Dean can’t go anywhere without Sam’s stupid Gigantor feet treading on his heels, little brother constantly in his space and at his elbow, sticking his nose here there and yonder like it’s all his goddamn business.

And this? The irritation? It’s more than just living in each other’s pockets. That, Dean’s used to, just part and parcel of the crazy, messed up lives they lead.

What he’s not used to is clingy, which is the only label he can find for what Sam’s being, the only word he has for the constant barrage of questions, the 24/7 bird-dogging of his every movement and location: _“Where are you going?” “When are you going to back?” “How far away is it?” ‘You got your gun on you?” “You’re positive it’s just a spirit?” “Are you sure you don’t need back-up?”” Are you gonna be drinking?” “You said you were going to be back by 2am. Where are you?”_

“Goddamn, if I wanted to answer these kinds of questions all damn day, I could’ve just got married,” Dean will grumble, watching the bottle blonde he’s been flirting with for the past three drinks roll her eyes and make her way down the bar for less distracted pastures.

“That’s not funny, Dean,” Sam says, frowning so intensely Dean can practically hear it through the phone lines.

And yeah, it’s really not.                         

It’s not like Dean isn’t trying to be sympathetic.

He gets it: He almost got himself killed before, so Sam’s worried he’s going to do it again, especially after losing Jess outta left field like that.

But it’s been months, and Dean’s been working his ass off, tearing through cases like it’s his mission in life, kicking ass, taking names, and saving Sam’s sorry hide on more than one occasion. But Dean’s still dealing with the Sammish Inquisition day and night, and worse, he’s gotta see that wide-eyed, gut-punched terror on Sammy’s face every time shit gets real, every time the hunt goes just a little bit not as planned, which is just the opening act for what comes next.

Because every time the hunt goes a little pear shaped? Every time they make it through by the skin of their teeth or less? Every time Dean sees that horrified look of I-Almost-Lost-You on Sammy’s face? It’s Dean who has to watch the kid toss and turn the night after, face creased in pain, hands clenched around his pillow or Dean or both. Dean’s the one who has to deal with it, the one who has to coax Sammy through that night and the next morning. He has to swallow his brother’s mother henning and his panic and his hands clutching at the sleeve of Dean’s jacket, at his wrist, his elbow, like he needs to keep touching Dean to make sure he’s still there, that he’s not spirit chow or wendigo bait, not dead or gone or forgotten in a hole somewhere. Dean has to do it all, and he has to do it knowing that it’s his fault. That it’s only happening because he screwed up, _keeps_ screwing up, just can’t fucking make good on his promise to be strong enough – good enough – to keep both of them safe.

Christ, track record like his? It's no wonder Sammy doesn’t feel like Dean can take care of them anymore. It's no wonder Sam's lost all the faith he had in his big brother, not really, but dammit, if Dean had nothing else, he at least thought he’d always have that.

Still, as rough as it’s been these last few months, it’s been good as often as it’s been bad. They make a hell of a team, him and Sam, and it’s not like it used to be with Dad at all. Definitely not the way Dean imagined it.

But it’s good.

Sometimes it’s even better, because Dean’s never had Sam like this before. Never had Sam all to himself – warm and constant at Dean’s elbow, sarcastic and bitchy and oh-so-enlightened, ruthlessly funny when he wants to be, all snark and no bite, ordering his salads and bitching about Dean’s music and ducking his head to try to hide his dimpled grin when Dean tells a really awful joke.

Everything’s all shuffled around now, and it’s almost— It _is_ better this way. Now it’s Dean in the driver’s seat, not Dad, and he’s not craning his neck to make comments at Sam in the back seat before turning back to the roadmap or to talk about the next hunt. Sam’s right there, and he just fits next to Dean, like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there.

Always will belong there.

It’s not perfect. There are fights, hurt feelings, arguments and grudges and all the raw edges where they rub one another wrong, places they dig into and hurt each other when they don’t even mean to, but even then, it’s good, better than good, the best.

More than Dean could have possibly imagined.

But Dad. Dad’s the real problem.

Sam’s still mad at him, so so fucking mad. And Dean just can’t fix it, no matter how hard he’s been trying, trying to remind Sam about the things Dad’s been through, what he’s done for both of them, telling him how Dad used to swing by Stanford all the time to check up on Sam, how he was just worried when Sam went away to college – didn’t mean those things he said, couldn’t have. But Sam won’t hear it. He just shuts Dean down every time, only needs one word to do it: “Louisiana.”

One word to sum up every way John Winchester’s failed them.

Nine letters. Five syllables. All Sam needs to spell out everything he’s holding against Dad, every inch of the fury he’s got stored up in him for the man, everything he just won’t find it in himself to forgive.

And when it all comes to a head in Rockford, Dean doesn’t even know why he’s surprised.

He should have expected this. Should’ve known better than to leave Sam alone in an asylum guaranteed to turn people’s anger into homicidal rage, especially when Sam’s been nothing but angry since they received yet another text with coordinates from Dad – first word they’ve gotten from him since before Lawrence, before Jess, and of course, _of fucking course_ , it’s about a hunt.

Dean had watched as Sam bristled at his insistence on abandoning the search for Dad yet again, especially on John Winchester’s orders. He’d taken in Sam’s bitter, pinch-lipped silence when Dean had said that, yeah, they did have to do what Dad told them to do, and he’d ignored the way Sam had glared and huffed his way through the first part of the hunt, and now he’s paying for it at the price of one brainwashed and severely pissed off baby brother, plus artillery.

“Dean,” Sam exhales. “Step away from the door.”

His voice is hard, laced with an undercurrent of trembling rage, and Dean knows, even before he turns around and sees the sawed-off pointed at his chest, the red sludge of blood dribbling from his brother’s nose.

Dean raises his hands in surrender, standing slowly.

“Sammy, put the gun down.”

Sam cocks his head, rivulets of blood painting his chin in garish streams.

“Why?” he bites out, eyes hard. “Don’t you _trust_ me?”

“Yeah, of course I do,” Dean placates. “But man, this isn’t you. Ellicott scrambled your eggs, Sam; you don’t know what you’re doing. 

Sam huffs out a bitter little laugh.

“This _is_ me,” he says. “I’m just telling the truth for the first time. I mean, come on, why are we even here, Dean? Because Dad gave you an _order_? Because you trust _him_ more than you trust _me_?

“Sam,” Dean says.

He takes a step forward, and Sam cocks the shotgun, eyes glittering with intent. Dean draws back again.

“What are you gonna do?” he asks. “That gun’s full of rock salt. It can’t kill me.”

The next thing he knows, there’s pain shooting through his chest and he’s flying backwards through the hidden door. He lands hard, gasping for the air that’s been forced out of his lungs.

“No,” Sam says calmly, stepping into the room to stand with a foot on either side of Dean’s body, gun still trained on his brother, “but it might shut you up for a minute or two. Maybe then you’ll listen to me for once in your damn life.”

Dean turns on his side, clutches at his chest as he scans the room for signs of the doc’s body.

“We gotta salt and burn Ellicott,” he wheezes. “Then this’ll all be over. You’ll go back to normal.”

Sam scoffs.

“Then what, Dean? We gonna pretend it never happened?” he says. “Oh, wait, I forgot. _That_ treatment’s just for Dad. I mean, I go off to college and you won’t let me forget it for the rest of my life. But Dad leaves you to die, and that’s just _fine_ with you. Still following his commands like a good little soldier. Still defending him no matter what kind of crap he pulls.”

“This isn’t you talking,” Dean grits out. He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, Sam or himself.

“What the hell is wrong with you, huh?” Sam presses on. “Are you that _brainwashed_? No matter what he does to you, you just keep crawling back to the man. You’re like a kicked dog. It’s _pathetic_.” 

Dean’s brain is firing on all cylinders, trying to think past the words Sam is hurling at him to come up with some way to get by his brother, to toast the spirit controlling him and get them both out of this.

“The worst part is, after everything he’s done, you’re _still_ siding with him over me!” Sam insists, voice escalating to a shout. “You’re _always_ on his side! Every fight we ever had was my fault! He threw me out of the house and told me to never come back, and YOU DIDN’T SAY _ANYTHING_!”

Dean pinches his eyes shut. He’s not looking to have a conversation about that night with Sam _ever_ , much less a Sam armed with a shotgun and a spook-given inclination to turn Dean into Swiss cheese.

“So what?” he says instead. “You wanna kill me?”

“I want to keep you safe! I want to _protect_ you!” Sam exclaims. “But you won’t let me do that, will you? If you’re gonna keep following Dad’s orders until he gets you killed, then I might as well just do the job now, right?”

Dean’s got his opening, digs his Taurus out of his jacket and holds it up.

“Then here. You want me dead so bad? Real bullets are gonna work a hell of a lot better than rock salt.”

Sam’s hand hovers over the gun for a moment, his brows furrowed.

“Take it!” Dean shouts.

Sam tosses aside the shotgun and snatches up the pistol, pointing it at Dean’s face, finger on the trigger.

“You really think you can shoot me?” Dean asks levelly. “You think you can kill your own brother?”

“I'm just giving you what you want, Dean!” Sam laughs, and it's bitter, unhinged, harsh and hysterical as it echoes in the ruined asylum. “You wanna go out hunting?! You wanna do Dad's dirty work until it fucking kills you?! At least this way, I know you won't have to go alone! At least this way, you die my brother and not his fucking puppet!"

He smiles. There’s a smear of blood on his teeth, and Dean feels his stomach churn.

“First you, then me,” Sam says, manic glint in his eyes. “ _My_ way, _my_ terms! Not his!”

Dean swallows bile.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, if that’s what you want, go ahead and do it. Do it!”

His brother’s face twists, and he pulls the trigger. The gun clicks uselessly, chamber empty, and Sam blinks in confusion before Dean lunges up and knocks him unconscious with two solid right hooks.

He crouches, panting for a moment, heart hammering in his chest, but he doesn’t have time to think about the things Sam’s said, can’t let himself, _won’t_ let himself.

He burns the bones, sends Ellicott off to Hell, then gets a newly sane Sam and their batch of civvies out of the asylum, and after it’s all finished Sam says he’s sorry, says he didn’t mean any of the things he said, wants to talk about it. Dean brushes him off. He’s not in the mood to listen to any apologies from Sam right now. He’s not really in the mood to hear anything from Sam at all.

“Dean, listen to me,” Sam insists when they’re back in the motel. “I’m telling you, I’m sorry. I—”

Dean shuts the bathroom door in his face, turns on the shower so he can pretend he doesn’t hear Sam trying to call him. He sees the shadow of Sam’s feet lurking under the door for a good five minutes before he finally slinks away.

 _‘Now who’s the kicked dog?’_ Dean thinks and hates himself for it.

After he gets out of the shower, he’ll tell Sam everything’s fine. He’s say it’s not a big deal, that he’s not taking it personally, that he’s just tired.

He’ll go to bed angry.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, that plan goes all to hell when he gets out of the shower and Sammy’s sitting on the bed, head hung and med kit across his knees like it’s some kind of penance.

“Go to bed,” Dean gruffs. “I got it.”

And then Sam looks up, sad and quiet, his eyes huge and watery, and goddamnit if anyone can say no to the kid when he gets like this, when he just begs silently with those big goddamn eyes, looking like he expects the kick that’s coming, knows he deserves it, but hopes, _wishes_ for something else.

Well hell if Dean’ll give him whatever he’s hoping for, ‘cause the salt in his chest still stings like a son of a bitch, and Sam’s words, the ugly twist of his face when he pulled the trigger, when he tried to ice his only brother, are still fresh in Dean’s mind.

The thought that his baby brother, his Sammy, could do that…

No.

He doesn’t have any kindness in him to give. Not yet.

But he could use the patch up, and Sam’ll only get worse if Dean doesn’t let him do _something_.

He flops down on the bed with a huff, glaring at everything but Sam as his brother picks rock salt out of his chest with tweezers. Sam kneels to get a better angle, the rasp of his jeans against the matted shag of the motel carpet the only sound in the room aside from the rattling hum of the motel air conditioner.

Sam’s silent as he works, but Dean doesn’t act like he can’t hear his little brother swallowing hard, doesn’t pretend he can’t feel Sam thinking of words and dismissing them, trying and failing to find something to bridge the sudden, sharp space between them.

Explanations that’ll never explain enough. Apologies that’ll never quite heal the wound. Words and wishes and excuses that Sam knows Dean well enough to not even try and use.

Dean doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make it any easier for Sam, just stares fixedly at the shitty motel art in front of him. Lets the silence say everything for him.

It’s not until the swallows get louder, become hot, heavy breaths and loud, wet sniffs, that Dean can’t ignore it any longer. He has to look, to watch his brother try and keep his hand steady, try and get as much salt as he can out of the wound while fiercely knuckling away tears.

The third time Sam’s tweezers slip as he’s going for another piece of grit, Dean pushes his hands away.

“I’ll take it from here,” he mutters, still not making eye contact, still keeping everything in, but it’s getting harder to find that calm, cool indifference he needs, harder to dig down and find that ice-cold center of distance, of _resolve_.

“Dean…” The word comes out broken and watery, as sad and pathetic and lonely as Sam looks, and if Dean is a kicked dog then Sam is a starved one, a shivering, wet, lonely puppy in the middle of winter, but God, the things he _said_.

And he _meant_ it; he did. All that shit had to come from somewhere _,_ no matter what his little brother says. A ghost couldn’t make those things up. Nobody could pull such perfect, painful words from nowhere, and what the hell is Dean supposed to do with that, huh? How’s Dean supposed to deal with the fact that Sam thinks he’s some sort of- of- suicidal _puppet_ for their goddamn dad? How’s he supposed to take that? That his brother doesn’t trust him enough to keep them alive, to know the difference between a dangerous job and- And _what_? They’re both better off _dead_ than with Dean callin’ the shots? That’s what he’s supposed to go with?

No.

Just no.

“Go to bed, Sam,” Dean grits out, jerking his head at the bed furthest from the door, big and empty and far away.

Just far enough away.

Sam looks at the bed, as cold and empty and distant as his brother is right now, and Dean watches his brother’s eyes well up and spill over. He knows what he just did, can’t help but hate himself just a little for it, because even though they never said – even though they never say – well, _anything_ about their sleeping thing, that thing that gets them through the nights that are too hard and the days that are too long, the hunts that hurt too much and the hurts that just won’t go away, the thing that stands in for all the words they don’t want to say, can’t say _, shouldn’t_ say…

Well, the one word that’s never been said, never been meant or hinted at or implied – not between them, not ever, not since this whole fucked-up journey began – is “no”.

“ _Please_ , Dean—" Sam manages.

He’s full-on ugly crying now, and somehow, that's what breaks Dean, what shatters the cold, distant armor he'd been able to pull around himself up ‘till now, because he's hurt too, dammit! Sam would have fucking _shot_ him! Would have turned Dean – his own goddamn brother – into nothing but bone shards and an ugly red stain on the floor of that shit hole, would have blasted him out of this world forever and fucking _liked_ it, and now _Sam's_ crying?

"I should go," Dean bites out, more to his knees than anything, trying to keep control of his face, trying to keep it in just a little longer, because this is Sammy and he doesn't trust Dean, doesn't _believe_ in Dean, doesn't know that the night Sam left, the night he finally took off for Stanford, was one of the worst—

"Dean, no," Sam protests, his face crumbling as he grasps for any part of his brother he can reach, his warm, salt-sticky fingers tumbling, fumbling, tugging for a grip on Dean's knee, his wrist, anything. "Don't leave, please.”

"Ellicott didn't pull that shit out of thin air, Sam!" Dean bursts out, shooting to his feet with a hand clenched on the towel at his waist, glaring down at his brother on his knees before him. "You don't trust me? You think I'm gonna get us both killed? If it's that bad, believe me, we're better off alone!"

"Don't say that, Dean, _please_ don't say that," Sam chokes out, grabbing for Dean's free wrist, his fingers hot and strong, slamming their arms and wrists and hands together. Dean can feel the smooth, cool length of Sam's scar brushing the back of his hand, trailing down against his fingers where Sam’s dragged them together, is holding on too tight and just tight enough.

He's suddenly, sharply aware of life without Sam. Of what leaving, of what being alone would really mean.

The memories hit him like a fucking semi, memories of time lost and chances missed, of empty hotel rooms and days alone on the road, of how fast an hour’s fight can turn into a day of silence, a week, a month, a year…

Or two.

Two years without Sammy, without even a phone call from his little brother. Without a word or a look or a body in the passenger seat, laughing and joking and filling that space in Dean that is always empty, always hurting when Sam’s not around.

"I trust you! I trust you, I promise," Sam gasps, his head falling forward onto Dean's bare chest, still damp from the shower. His little brother's is face warm and sticky with tears, his nose squashed, pressing wet and messy right beneath Dean’s heart.

Sam's still on his knees. Even though he’s every bit as big and tall as he's been for years now, just for a second it's like it was ages ago, before all this shit started, when Dean was the one who was big and tall and strong, striding through his growth spurts while Sammy stayed the same scrawny, floppy-haired little kid he'd always been, small and sullen and withdrawn to anyone and everyone except for Dean.

"I trust you, I do," his baby brother sobs, burying his face in Dean’s chest. "Just don't leave me. _Please_ , Dean."

"Sammy…" Dean swallows hard.

He can’t help but bring up the hand not clenched in Sam’s to tangle in his brother’s hair. Dean skims his fingers down the soft, messy curls at the base of his neck, reassuring himself that Sam is here – here and with him – and Dean’s not on the other end of a pistol, not lost or broken or bleeding out, not two years and an impossible argument away. It’s not too late.

Maybe this time, just this once, they can fix things before it all goes to hell instead of picking up the pieces.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy continues, still holding on tight, still digging his face into Dean’s chest, tears coming, dripping down to mix with blood and salt and water alike.

It stings, salt and hair and brother on top of raw, scraped, rock-salted skin. It aches and burns and keeps the pain fresh in Dean's mind, keeps Sam's words – fueled by Ellicott's ghost and Dean's mistakes and Sammy's own sleeping rage – right there, right in front of him.

But Dean’s pushed Sam away enough for one night, isn’t about to shove away a lifetime of Sammy for a few minutes of hurt.

“I’m sorry and I _didn’t_ mean it and you can be mad at me,” Sam rambles, hands tight and head unmoving, the weighted pressure of his rock-hard skull and silk-soft hair held against Dean as tightly as a bandage against an open wound.

Dean lets him get it out, keeps up the soft pressure of his fingers in Sam's hair, making soft, almost absent passes over his brother's scalp.

“Hate me if you have to, Dean,” he finishes, wrecked and thready, “but please, _please_ don’t go.”

He’s panting now, worn out by hunting and hurting and crying. Dean can feel the heave of Sam’s chest against his stomach, the terrified, too fast in-and-out of stress and pain and misery.

“Don’t hate you, Sammy. Could never hate you,” Dean murmurs.

His hand fall from Sam’s head to slide across his shoulders. Dean pulls him in before he brings their linked hands up, cards through Sammy’s hair as best he can with his brother’s fingers still tangled around his wrist, still refusing to let go. Dean lets his head fall forward, rest against Sammy’s own as he takes a deep breath, inhales, takes in home and family and brother and – _everything_.

Everything he’s ever fought for. Everything he’s ever wanted. Everything he’s ever needed to keep going, to live this life.

It’s right here.

It’s right here, and it’s begging him not to go, not to walk out that door and destroy everything they’ve worked so hard to recover, so hard to win back.

How could he do anything but stay?

If it means he’s weak, means he can’t stay mad at his little brother for anything, not even when his life was on the line, well, so what? There are worse things in the world. Dean’ll take it –  take it all – if it means having Sam safe and close and here with him.

“Not gonna leave you,” he mumbles into his brother’s hair. “I’m not. I promise.”

And it’s like all the tension, all the desperation and fear drops out of Sam, falls right away, and his arms come around Dean’s waist. His head turns into the gentle pressure of Dean’s.

“Dean, I—” Sam starts, breath puffing against Dean’s breastbone.

“Forget it, Sammy,” he interrupts, eyes pinched shut, keeping his little brother tight against him as he hopes – _God_ does he ever hope – that just this time, just _once_ , they can keep things from getting any more screwed up. “Look, we can deal with it in the morning, I swear, but let’s just… let it go for tonight. All right?”

Sam takes a deep breath, nods against him, and Dean can feel the movement through his entire body. He can feel Sam everywhere, under his cheeks and against his fingers, arms around him and chest pressed against him.

“Good,” Dean sighs, scratching his fingers through Sammy’s hair one last time before straightening up and stepping back.

He can feel Sam lean toward him just a little, notices how his brother’s arms resist the separation for just a second. He doesn’t miss how he wants to do the same thing, to just stay there wrapped up in his brother, holding on tight and never letting go.

But one of them has to.

And he’s still in just a towel.

“Go wash up,” Dean orders, jerking his head at the bathroom as he scoops up the forgotten med kit and slaps it on the table, rooting around for the biggest pack of gauze they have. “It’s ass o’clock already, and we’re not staying another night in this shithole.”

Dean sees his brother hesitate, watches Sam’s eyes dart between the beds and Dean and back again, unsteady, unsure. Dean remembers his spilt second refusal, breaking Sam down with a jerk of the chin and a door, opened months ago in tragedy, in desperation, in having nothing and no one else, and thoughtlessly slammed shut in an instant because he was angry and because he knew it would hurt.

God, why did he ever do that? This is _Sam_ , and with the shit they go through? No matter what Sam said in that asylum, he didn't deserve that.

“And remember to dry your goddamn hair,” Dean continues, hating himself even more now that the anger’s cleared and slow, weary regret has moved in to take its place. “Last time you dripped all over the fucking place. It was like sleeping with a goddamn dolphin.”

Dean knows he doesn’t deserve the smile that breaks out on Sam’s face, no less brilliant for the tear tracks, snotty nose, and red-rimmed eyes, but he’ll take it anyway. When Sam shuffles out of the shower, warm and damp and sleepy, tumbling into bed and stealing all the covers and burying his face in Dean’s collarbone, he’ll take that too and shove all the other crap down, keep it to himself in favor of wrapping his arms around his baby brother and falling asleep with the slow, steady puff of Sam's breath on his neck, no matter what the consequences end up being.

Because Dean’s not just a mean bastard; he’s a selfish one. And because even if he doesn’t deserve Sam, he has him. As long as he does? Well, he’ll be okay.

 _They’ll_ be okay.

They have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please take the time to leave kudos and a comment. We should be back with another installment in this verse in a couple of weeks, so subscribe or check back for more!

**Author's Note:**

> Thus endeth Asylum.
> 
> Don't worry, the boys don't get off that easy. We've got another chapter of this one coming next week, so be sure to subscribe or check back for the conclusion!


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